


The Poetry of a Heartbeat

by morganoconner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Claiming, M/M, Soulmates, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:38:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Eve's bite purges the vampire cure from Dean's body and turns him permanently, he is left with two options -- feed, or die.  For a hunter, this should be an easy choice, but what Dean doesn't count on is just how far his brother is willing to go to save him.  When all is said and done and the hunger has been sated, Dean must come to terms with what he is and accept the fact that, even as a monster, he is still worthy of the faith that Sam has always had in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Poetry of a Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sam/Dean Minibang challenge at [](http://samdean_otp.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://samdean_otp.livejournal.com/)**samdean_otp**.

The first time he felt it was while he was watching Eve die. There was a moment, nothing more than a split-second, when he was aware of it deep inside. A quiver, a _longing_. Familiar in some untouchable way, there and then gone again like smoke.

Eve looked at him, right there in the midst of death-by-phoenix-ash. It was swimming through her veins and destroying her from the inside out, but she still managed to look at him. And when she tried to smile, something in Dean went ice cold with dread.

He forcefully shoved it from his mind. There were other things that needed his focus, other problems he had to deal with.

The next day, the ringing in his ears started. A constant drone that drove him to snap at Sam more than once. It echoed in the car as they made their way back towards Sioux Falls and rang discordantly against the background noise of the diner where they stopped for food. Nothing he tried blocked it out, until finally he couldn't take it anymore. He pulled into the first motel off the interstate he could find and drank himself into a restless slumber while Sam watched, silent and anxious-looking.

When he finally pulled himself from the dredges of sleep some indeterminable amount of time later, his vision was filled with auras. Neon signs suddenly burned his retinas. Streetlights seared into his brain. Anything that seemed bright or colorful in any way was suddenly that much brighter, that much more intense.

It was familiar in a way he couldn't quite place but knew he should recognize. Familiar the way a dream was familiar, smoky and faint, but tugging at him all the same, buzzing at the back of his mind like a particularly irritating fly.

When it finally hit him, when he finally understood, it was like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from his lungs and making him want to vomit where he stood. He staggered, his heart suddenly thundering in his ears as it tried to beat its way out of his chest. Panic burst through him, bright and sharp, and he stumbled back to the bed. It wasn't until the terrified wail clawed its way out of his throat that Sam came running.

-666-

It's five days later. There are deep circles around Dean's eyes, he's as pale as some of the ghosts they hunt, and he's curled himself under a blanket to ward off the constant bone-deep chill that hit in the early hours of the morning. Bobby says it's going to get worse, a lot worse. The greater the hunger, the colder he'll become. Misery feeding off misery, in typical Winchester fashion.

Bobby says it won't get better until he feeds for the first time, because the first time is the most important for every –

No, he won't think the word yet, he _won't_.

Anyway, Dean knows that _Bobby_ knows that Dean will die long before that happens. There won't be a first time.

They haven't locked him down yet, but both Bobby and Sam are watching carefully, at least one in the living room with him at all times. As though Dean's going anywhere. As though he'd allow himself the temptation. He knows better now. Learned his lesson with Lisa, after nearly destroying them both because he'd been arrogant enough to believe he had the willpower to withstand it. That _hunger_.

He knows better now.

He'd told them to put him in the panic room, is still angry that they didn't listen. But Bobby thinks they can save him, and Sam thinks they _know_ him, and neither has been willing to listen to anything like reason.

It's Sam in here with him now, sitting quietly at the table, flipping through the pages of the latest dusty tome that will apparently be Dean's salvation while shooting glances that waver between worried and scared and guilty at the couch when he thinks Dean isn't looking.

Their first idea had been simple: just try Samuel's cure again. They'd packed away a vial of blood from the thing that had turned Dean, _just in case_. Because you could never be too careful, especially when your last name was Winchester. Sam had made the cure this time, so Dean knew it was good, because Sammy never screwed up, not with things like this. But when Dean drank it down, it hadn't had any effect, not even an upset stomach.

Bobby's theory is that Eve's bite had burned the cure out of him and made him immune. She meant to turn him into a monster. She succeeded in turning him _back_ into one instead. Not the monster she'd intended, but what difference did that really make? Even the phoenix ash in his system only protected him for a few extra days, but eventually, her influence, and the fact that he'd already been a…creature once, was just too strong.

That's the theory anyway, and it's as good as any as far as Dean's concerned.

Not like it really matters. A monster is a monster is a monster, and unless Sam pulls a miracle from up his sleeve soon, Dean is a _dead_ monster. Because he has to feed. He has to feed _soon_ , or all the best intentions in the world aren't going to save him.

The first time is the most important.

Dean _has_ to feed, and it _has_ to be human, and there's no way he's going to do it.

He won't. He'd rather die. He'll have to die anyway, if they can't cure him, and he may as well come to terms with it now. If it'll ease Sam's conscience over the idea of chopping his head off, Dean doesn't even mind dying of starvation. It's not his favorite idea – he's not _that_ much of a masochist, thank you very much – but better that than watching Sam torture himself, anyway.

Dean isn't feeling too hopeful about the whole cure thing.

Sam's looking at him again, like he knows exactly what Dean's thinking. His jaw is clenching and unclenching, and his hand is fisted where it's resting on the open pages of the book in front of him. If his eyes got any bigger or dewier, they'd probably fall right out of his head. Dean does his best to ignore it, keeping his own eyes closed and burying his face in the battered pillow Bobby gave him, but it's harder to block out the sound of Sam's heart beating hummingbird-frantic against his ribcage.

Sam is afraid, because Sam knows they've got nothing.

Worse still, Sam believes it's his fault, and Dean doesn't know how to ease that burden from his baby brother's shoulders. It wasn't Sam who got him turned, it was a thing that looked like him and sounded like him, but it wasn't Sam. But Sam's never going to believe that, and nothing Dean can say is going to help. Dean knows this, because if their roles were reversed, he knows he'd be thinking the exact same way as Sam.

The one thing Dean doesn't want to do is die while his brother blames himself.

So, monster or not – _vampire_ or not, because avoiding the word isn't going to make it any less true – Dean's got something to live for at least for a little bit longer.

As long as he can keep ignoring the hunger that gets worse every time he hears Sam's heartbeat.

-666-

Sam looks at Dean, and he doesn't see a monster. He doesn't see the bloodlust that he knows has to be nearly all consuming. He doesn't see the fangs that slide out, razor sharp and deadly, whenever Dean gets angry now. He doesn't see any of the things that the books and the journal say make up a vampire.

All he sees is his big brother, scared and hurting and losing hope by the minute, and it's his fault.

He isn't blaming himself for the reasons Dean thinks he is. He knows, logically, that he isn't entirely responsible for the things he did when his body had a vacation from his conscience. He was a different person, made decisions he _knows_ he would never make in ordinary circumstances. He's come to terms with that, or at least he's trying to. There's blood on his hands, more even than he knows about or wants to remember, but he's dealing with that.

But it's his fault that Dean got hurt, that he wasn't fast enough or smart enough to stop Eve. It's his fault he can't figure out a way to save Dean now. God, it's his fault that Dean's planning on dying in the most painful way possible, just to avoid putting more blood on Sam's hands.

Sam's not an idiot, and he knows Dean better than anyone, vampire or not. It doesn't take a genius to follow the tracks of Dean's thought process right now.

There are so many other things they should all be thinking about right now. Crowley being alive, and his hunt for Purgatory. Castiel and his never-ending war against Raphael. Sam's own suspicions that there's more going on with both of them than meets the eye. What's going to happen to the monsters, with the mother of all of them and so many alphas being gone.

It's chaos all over the board, but Sam doesn't care about any of it.

He sighs, closing the book he's been at staring sightlessly for the past ten minutes. There's nothing in it. Nothing they didn't already know, anyway, which may as well be the same thing. Nothing even in the old Campbell journals, because as far as they were concerned, if the cure worked, it was permanent, and if it didn't, well… what was one more monster to kill?

Sam really doesn't miss the Campbells, for the record.

What he wishes, more than anything else right now, is that the one person who might have been able to help them was still alive. Because Lenore had been a vampire, but damn it, she'd been a good person, too. She was the reason that Sam and Dean knew there were shades of gray, even in the hunting world. Nothing – _nothing_ – was simply black and white.

But Lenore is gone, hopefully somewhere she can be a little more at peace with herself, although what he knows of Purgatory makes it only a step or two above Hell. She deserves peace though, because she was good, no matter what she did while under Eve's influence. She couldn't have helped that, it wasn't her fault, and at least Dean can be sure in the knowledge that he'll never have to be enslaved to Eve himself. Dean, for however long he allows himself to live, will at least know that he's in control of his own nature.

And just like that, the beginnings of an idea take root deep in the corners of Sam's mind.

-666-

Castiel comes two days later, and Dean doesn't have to look too deeply to know that, if he'd been hoping for the angel to whip out a miracle, he's going to be disappointed. Luckily, he hadn't really expected as much. He does wish Cas didn't look so damn guilty about it, but that seems to be a common theme with the people who are around him these days.

He pushes himself up, wincing at how weak he feels and the way everything hurts and the raw hunger that hits so hard, but he manages to smile (grimace) at his friend and wave for him to take a seat. Cas does, gingerly, perched on the edge of the chair across from Dean like he thinks it's going to bite him.

Cas doesn't waste time. "I can't help you, Dean, and there's nothing I can find anywhere that indicates another cure exists. I'm sorry."

Dean shrugs, looking away from the face Sam is making over at the table. Dean never wants to see that shattered expression again as long as he lives. Or…not-lives, as the case may be. "Figured as much, man. Whatever. I appreciate you trying." That's it then, Cas was basically their last shot. All there is now is waiting for the end.

Castiel hesitates, his eyes sad in a way Dean doesn't like to see. "I could –"

"No," Dean says, because he won't do that to Cas any more than he'll do it to Sam. "Don't think it'll be that much longer anyway." He says it quietly, but he can't miss the sound Sam makes in response, a quiet thing he'd never have picked up on as a human. A desperate little whimper that breaks Dean's heart.

"You…" Castiel hesitates again. "You could –"

Dean doesn't even need to speak to get his feelings across on this. His glare shuts Castiel up pretty quick. "I won't. I won't live as a monster. Not an option, Cas." He's surprised the angel would even suggest it.

He sinks back against the couch cushions, already exhausted just by this short conversation. He can practically taste the blood on the air, Sam's and Castiel's, and most of the energy he still has these days has been going toward blocking it the best way he can. It's not so hard; Sam, just by virtue of being Sam, is so deeply embedded in Dean's blood that nothing could make him go for his throat. And Castiel radiates power that scares the shit out of Dean, now that he's so aware of it. Castiel is not prey, could never be prey to something like him. God, Dean doesn't even want to know what angel blood would do to him.

Castiel stands, looking down at Dean with a pitying expression that Dean hates more than anything in the entire world right now. Suddenly, he just wants the angel gone. Cas is his friend, but he wants him gone now.

"I'll come again, before…" Castiel trails off, looking away, and Dean doesn't reply.

-666-

Later that night, Sam stares at the ceiling above his cot, thinking hard on the conversation he had with Castiel before the angel left.

He'd needed answers to a few of his burning questions, and he'd gotten them.

The alpha vampire is dead, which means the only other being who may have had any influence over Dean is gone.

Dean's soul is still as irrevocably tied to Sam's as it's always been.

And Castiel is willing to help Sam.

Sam thinks he should maybe be worried, because Castiel's instant response about the alpha vamp pretty much solidifies the idea that he's at least seen Crowley beyond the times the Winchesters knew about. But it just doesn't matter to Sam the way it should. Sam trusts Castiel, and if the angel thinks working with a demon is the only way he's going to win the war against Raphael, then Sam's going to trust him to know what he's doing.

All Sam cares about right now is Dean.

Because Sam is going to save him.

-666-

He's lost track of the passage of time. The ringing in his ears became a dull roar what feels like ages ago, and picking sounds apart has become impossible. Every time he opens his eyes, all he sees is shadows and light, and the light is so bright it burns and makes him grind his teeth and jerk all of his pained muscle. He squeezes his eyes closed and buries himself back under the blankets that do nothing to warm him anymore, but it barely helps.

Meanwhile, he's so hungry that he feels like there's a black hole inside of him, and it's the only thing he can concentrate on. It's the only thing with any meaning at all anymore.

He feels a hand press against his shoulder sometimes, and his body screams with it. He can't hear the heartbeat, but he can feel its vibration and knows the touch to mean there's blood nearby, knows that it would solve everything, make him strong, give him life.

But the smell. He knows the smell, can't think enough to pick apart what it represents, but he knows it, and it makes him recoil. Makes him thrash and howl and scream as loudly as his body screams at him to feed, because he needs to get away, needs to _stay away_ …

Another touch, this one with power behind it he can't understand, and Dean slips into the comforting depths of sleep.

-666-

"He won't last much longer," Castiel says, like Sam really needs to be told.

"I know."

"Sam, you know…" Castiel pauses, glances toward the couch where his charge lays quietly in sleep. "You must know Dean won't thank you for this."

"I know," Sam repeats, but he's been able to out-stubborn Dean his whole life. He doesn't care if Dean never thanks him, doesn't even care if Dean never forgives him. Dean will have a choice after this, one that's not so impossible for him. He only needs human blood this once, and then… "Just get us somewhere away from here, Cas. I won't do this in Bobby's house."

Castiel nods, and moments later, they are elsewhere. A nondescript motel room, exactly the kind Sam's spent his whole life in. Dean passed out on the bed, Sam still clutching one of the useless books he's been poring over for days, and it could almost be just a normal evening.

Except when Dean wakes up, it won't be with anything as innocent as a hangover.

He breathes deeply to gather himself as he tosses the book away. It lands on the floor with a loud _thump_ , and on any other day, he'd be horrified at himself for treating an old book so carelessly, but right now he's too busy drawing the dagger from his boot, staring at the way the metal gleams under the too-bright fluorescent lights of the room.

Too busy not meeting Castiel's eyes as he presses that metal to his wrist, the cold bite of it sharp and stinging on his skin even before he turns it on its edge.

Even before he drags it down.

Even before the blood begins to flow.

On the bed, Dean comes awake with dark eyes and sharp fangs and an inhuman sound of greedy desperation.

-666-

Everything else is a smear of indecipherable sights and sounds and smells, but the blood. The blood is right there, crimson and tantalizing, and it gives him a strength he hasn't possessed in what feels like forever. Strength enough to sit up, ignoring the way he feels so cold because the cold is secondary, meaningless in the face of blood right there in front of him. He moves, crawling on hands and knees to the edge of the bed and sliding off, his eyes never leaving that bright smear he can all but taste already. His ears ring with the sound of a heart pumping furiously, and it makes him crave that much more.

He reaches up to grasp at the offering, drags it down to his mouth, doesn't see the face before him but it doesn't matter because the blood is staining his fingers as he lifts the succulent arm it's dripping from, and then he darts his tongue out, unable to resist, and he _tastes_ …

The world goes nuclear.

With a snarl he latches on, fangs piercing around the wound so that the blood flows even more freely down his throat in a gushing torrent, sparks dancing behind his eyelids. He doesn't hear the words being murmured to him, can't feel the hand stroking through his hair. Even the heartbeat he'd taken note of loses its importance, and all he cares about is _more, more, need more, need it all_ …

Warmth returns to his limbs, and he feels alive. Electricity rushes through his veins, lighting him up from the inside out, and the world begins to return in stages of sensation.

The salty iron tang of the blood filling his mouth. The fingers gripping bruises into his shoulder. The staccato rhythm of the heartbeat so close, too close. The low moan, a voice that finally regains familiarity.

Dean comes back to himself just as Sam begins to fade.

-666-

Sam knows the exact moment Dean's sense of self-awareness returns, because Dean goes tense and his breath hitches in his throat and his fangs retract from where they've been piercing Sam's skin.

Dean feeding from him hasn't been anything like what Sam expected. He's been braced for pain, for fear, for something ugly and horrible. But when Dean had knelt before him, grasping Sam's arm and bringing him to his knees in front of him, it had been…something else. It certainly wasn't horror that had consumed Sam in that instant. He's not sure he wants to put a name to it.

Dean's head bent over Sam's arm, his eyes closing as he'd taken that first taste…

It had been…

 _Beautiful_.

Still Dean, always Dean, always Sam's big brother, but something else at the same time, and whatever he was now, Sam wasn't afraid. Sam wanted to know _more_.

But now the blood loss is catching up, and Dean is turning a gaze filled with shock and dismay on Sam but all Sam can do is tremble on his knees as his vision goes dark and his body begins to sway to the side. He's ready to fall, can't make his muscles work enough to brace himself, but it doesn't matter because there's suddenly a touch to the back of his neck, and clarity returns in an instant. His skin, which had gone tissue-paper pale, flushes with the sudden return of blood, and for a moment, he's dizzy from the rush.

Castiel squeezes once and lets go, and Sam turns to him with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you," he murmurs, and has just enough time to see Castiel nod before Dean is scrambling up and backing away from them both.

"What…what did you…" A sound of distress tears itself from Dean's throat, just as the back of his knees hit the bed and he falls onto it. "Oh God, what did I do?" he moans, but he isn't looking for an answer from them. Sam can tell, because his eyes have gone vacant, the same way they used to when he was remembering the things he did in Hell. "Oh God, oh my God, Sammy, _why_ …" he whispers, and Sam shoots a helpless look at Castiel.

Castiel sighs a little, but steps forward without a word. Dean looks up in alarm and tries to back away, but he's not nearly fast enough to escape an angel. Moments later he slumps against the pillows, asleep and at peace for at least a few blessed hours.

Sam swallows back the lump in his throat. Not regret, because he won't ever regret doing this for his brother, and he doesn't care what that says about him. But there's a fair amount of guilt there, because just like he always does, he's managed to hurt Dean again.

But it's worth it. It _has_ to be worth it.

Dean deserved the choice, and Sam needed the chance to save his brother. Just this once.

"I'll take care of him," he tells Castiel as the angel readies himself to leave.

"I know," Castiel replies, the tiniest of smiles dancing at the corners of his mouth. "He may not ever thank you for it, but I know, Sam. And I'm glad you chose to do this, for what it's worth."

Sam sits on the edge of the bed, staring down at the person in his life who has always mattered the most. "It's worth a lot." Drags his eyes away from Dean for just long enough to tell Castiel, "I support you too, you know. For what that's worth. Just…try not to lose yourself, Cas, okay?"

Castiel stares at him for an endless moment, but by the time he finally vanishes, Sam has already turned his gaze back to Dean.

Slowly, he lies down beside his brother, wraps him in his arms, and holds on tightly.

-666-

Dean comes back to reality slowly this time, happily drowning in all the scents that have always reminded him of Sam. Woodsy, with a hint of peppermint from the gum Sam pretends he doesn't chew, and that old book smell from every library they've ever visited their entire lives. And the scent of leather that clings to him from too many years scrunched in the passenger seat of the Impala.

It's a comforting smell, and instantly makes Dean feel like he's home. He burrows into it, nosing at the skin he's pressed so close to and sighing at the way Sam's pulse flutters with the movement.

And then he remembers.

He's up like a shot and across the room before Sam has even managed a full blink. He takes several deep breaths, wondering if it's possible for vampires to hyperventilate, because he can feel himself panicking, fear overtaking him in wave after wave as he recalls in far too much detail what it was like, feeling Sam's – his little brother's – blood sliding down his throat. He can feel it even now, making him stronger, making him whole, and he wants to slice open every vein in his body and bleed it out because it wasn't his to take. It's not his, and oh, God, how could he have done this, how could Sam have let him do this…

"I didn't _let you_ do anything," Sam growls, standing and glaring at Dean with the same heated look he perfected when he was seven years old. For a second, Dean wonders if Sam can read his mind, until he realizes he must have spoken out loud. "I had to force you to take every drop, because you're too stubborn to be willing to listen to reason."

"Listen to –" Dean cuts himself off, boggling at Sam. "I think I'd goddamn remember if we'd had a conversation about this."

Sam shrugs, the bastard. "Wasn't worth the argument I knew you'd put up."

"You… You crazy fucking…" Dean's beyond words, beyond anger. There's an incandescent rage flowing through him right now, _burning_ through him, and he feels his fangs slide out as every intensified sense he has zeroes in on Sam. Sam, who had no right. Sam, who knew what Dean was planning, who knows what Dean is, and who did this without stopping to consider…

He breathes, tries to push the fury down. He's close, so close to the edge, but he thinks he can get a handle on it, thinks he can…

And then Sam opens his stupid fucking mouth again. "I had to save you. _I saved you_ , Dean."

And that's it. With a roar, Dean is across the room, shoving Sam backwards on the bed and bounding up after him, snarling in Sam's face as he hovers over him and gives in to the wrath that rolls over him with the force of a tsunami. "You saved me? You _saved me?_ _This_ is the thing you saved, Sam! You saved a _monster!_ " He has one hand pressed against Sam's throat, the other curled into a fist on the bed, propping him up, and Sam's not going anywhere because Dean is strong now. Dean is ten times stronger than Sam was even at his worst, and Sam's not going anywhere.

"You won't hurt me," Sam says, soft and sure.

Dean's blood boils. His vision goes red, and he wants to lash out, wants to tear something apart, craves the feel of something breaking beneath his fist…

…Something inside him fragments, rage splitting off and changing to something else, something brighter but no less passionate…

…Dean will never remember what Sam's face looked like in the moment before he kisses him that first time. One moment, there's only a desperate need for violence, and then it's being channeled into _this_.

He claims Sam's mouth with a brutality he's never shown before, biting hard at his lip to make Sam gasp, and then diving in with his tongue.

Sam tastes like salvation.

Sam is rigid for the span of several fast heartbeats, but then Dean growls. He takes more, goes deeper, craves more of that taste of _light_ and _redemption_ and _home_ , and suddenly, the human in his arms comes alive, breathless and moaning and wanting.

Like this, Sam is as addictive as his blood ever was. More, even, and Dean couldn't stop himself from taking this even if he wanted to. And right now, stopping is the very last thing on his mind.

Sam tries to lift his hands, but Dean is faster. He removes the loose grip he's kept on his brother's throat and wraps his fingers around Sam's wrists instead, pinning them above his head. Not sure if he's leaving bruises, but he doesn't really care in that moment if he is. He swallows Sam's gasp and rolls his hips so that every inch of him is against Sam, pinning him to the bed, and it's indescribable, how good this feels.

He tears his mouth from Sam's with another growl, biting and kissing and sucking his way down to the long line of Sam's throat. His fangs have retracted with the intensity and violence of the kiss, but he lets one slip out again now, uses it to pierce the soft flesh under his mouth. Sam keens, goes wild beneath him, but he's held fast in Dean's grip, and he doesn't seem to be trying very hard to get away anyway, if the hardness pressed against Dean's hip is any indication.

Dean laps at the blood that trickles from the claiming mark, smirks against Sam's neck at the sound of his whimper. It's pure instinct that drives him to that spot again, and again, and again, biting and then bathing the wound with his tongue, repeating the actions over and over until Sam is a quivering mess underneath him, choked little cries escaping him every time Dean rubs them together just the right way.

What started out as something angry and vengeful has become something else entirely, and Dean is powerless against the tide driving him forward. He kisses Sam again, doesn't care that Sam can taste his own blood on Dean's tongue. There's no time for finesse, no need for seduction. He rolls his hips again, and then it's just a frantic race of thrusts and moans, that desperate need for completion.

They come together, riding the waves of the painful, fierce ecstasy for as long as they can, shaking and sweating as they come down slowly. What's between them is bright and carnal and beautiful and raw, and all Dean can do is bask in it as he nuzzles against Sam's neck, and slowly falls to sleep the very same way he awoke.

Wrapped around his brother, because – now more than ever – Sam is home.

-666-

Hours pass.

Dean wakes.

Sam watches.

There's a fraction of a second, before reality catches up, where Dean looks at him, and there's something like joy in his eyes. But it's gone before Sam begins to memorize it the way he wants to, and then all he can do is watch as Dean's expression goes shuttered, and his brother sits up and mutters, "Oh, Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking _Christ_."

Sam holds back the sigh, but only barely.

Dean buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. It's enough to have Sam sitting up as well now, and he places a hand on Dean's back, but all it does is make Dean tense up even more. "Dean…"

"This is what you saved, Sammy," Dean whispers into his hands, and hearing his tone, Sam is frankly astounded that Dean hasn't already tried to run.

"Yeah," Sam replies. "And I'd do it again in a heartbeat. You're a good man, Dean, vampire or not. You have the choice to be good, and now that Eve and the alpha are gone…"

"How can you say that," Dean demands, turning to him with tortured eyes. "How can you even _think_ that, after I…" His jaw clenches as he swallows hard and looks away.

Sam isn't sure he wants to admit this, but if Dean is going to trust him… If Sam has any hope of Dean making the choice to stay alive… "I kind of thought it was a possibility," he says quietly, keeping his eyes on Dean. When his brother's eyes widen and shoot back to his, he sighs. "Dad told us once that vampires mate for life. It's instinctive. I mean, it was pretty much going to be me or Lisa, right? Your soulmate or the girl who got away? The vampire isn't going to care about family or genetics or anything like that. This – _incest_ – it's a human taboo."

It's not too often that Sam sees Dean at a complete and utter loss for words, and he can't even enjoy it because he's too scared of whatever is about to happen.

"I knew it was a possibility," he continues, determined, "and I let it happen, and I'd do it again in a second." His tone is firm, and his heart beats steady in his chest, even if everything else inside of him is quaking. "Just like I'd make you take my blood again in a heartbeat. You're worth it, saving your life is worth it, and even if it wasn't… Well, the sex thing…it's not exactly something I've never considered before."

There. It's out. Dean looks gobsmacked, but it's out there between them and there's no taking it back, and as scared as he is that he's ruined everything between them forever, Sam can't regret it, because it's a weight he's been carrying for a long time now.

"If you want, we can never mention it again," Sam says, when the silence grows to be too much and his ears start ringing with all the things they aren't saying. "I just…I wanted you to have a chance, Dean. You deserve that much. We know that vampires can be good, Lenore proved that. And with me and Bobby around, we won't…we would never let you go dark, even if that wasn't the case. But if you'd died today, you'd have gone straight to Purgatory, and I couldn't…" He trails off, because that fear is still with him, the one where Dean is beyond his grasp, suffering in some dark place Sam can't reach him or save him from.

Dean snorts, finally dragging himself out of his shocked stupor and latching on to that one thing. "I could die a hundred years from now and that's still where I'm headed. I'm a _monster_ , Sam, and you need to wrap your fucking head around that!"

"No," Sam says, shaking his head. "That's not… You’re a vampire with a soulmate, Dean. A _human_ soulmate, who still possesses a one-way ticket to Heaven from God himself. Cas looked into it, and he's pretty sure where I go, you'll follow. Vampire or not." He leaves out the part where if they're wrong, or if Dean somehow dies first anyway, Cas will probably tear the cosmos apart trying to find his charge and drag him to Heaven. He doesn't think Dean needs to know that yet. Or possibly ever.

"I can't…" Dean stands, running a hand over his face. "I can't deal with all of this. Sam, I just…"

Sam stares up at him, at his big brother, at his whole world, and wonders if this is the last time he's ever going to see him. "You want to be alone."

"I need some time to decide what to do." Dean looks like he wants to reach out, but he doesn't, and Sam very carefully doesn't try to make him. He stays seated on the bed and tries to will himself to believe that this will work, that Dean will be okay and that he'll come back to Sam.

"Okay," Sam whispers. "I can do that." Because he'd promised himself it would be Dean's choice. From the very beginning, he'd promised himself…

Dean's eyes drink in his face for minute that seems to span an eternity, and Sam holds his gaze without flinching.

And then, without even a hint of warning, Dean's gone, the motel room door closing softly behind him as he darts out into the night.

Away from Sam.

-666-

Dean doesn't leave right away. He can't, because this is his little brother ( _his mate_ , he tries very hard not to think), alone on a deserted highway in the middle of nowhere, upset for every reason, right and wrong, under the sun. This is his baby brother, and no matter what else is going on in their lives, it's always been Dean's job to look after him.

So he waits, out of sight, just long enough to make sure Sam will be all right, that he'll be able to find his way back to Bobby's, where he'll be safe.

When Dean is finally sure that Sam is okay – or at least as close as he's going to get anytime soon – he sets out. He doesn't really know where he's going, and he doesn't even know if he's on a quest to find an easy way out or simply to find himself. He wonders if maybe they're one and the same, anyway.

-666-

Sam would like to be able to say he doesn't pine for Dean's during his brother's absence. He'd like to be able to say he goes on with his life, gets things accomplished while he waits. But the truth is, he does nothing of the sort.

He mopes.

He becomes exactly the emo princess Dean's always accused him of being, and worse still, he does it in front of Bobby.

The first week after the grumpy hunter drives two states and four towns over to pick him up from the motel Castiel had brought them to, Sam sits on the couch in the living room and stares out of the cracked, smudgy window. Like he's going to see Dean just meander his way through the junkyard and up the walk and onto the porch like nothing has changed.

Like Dean will come home during some hot summer day like he always has in the past, easy smile and sun-bleached hair and cocky attitude, and everything will be exactly the way it's supposed to be. Him and Dean together, no matter what.

But even if Dean comes, it won't be in the daytime. And even if he stays, nothing will ever be quite that easy again.

And there's no guarantee Dean ever will, anyway.

But knowing that doesn't stop Sam from waiting, right in that same spot, day after day after day. If it weren't for Bobby smacking him upside the head and bringing him food morning, noon, and night, Sam would probably forget to even eat.

Nothing matters except the waiting.

After the first week, Bobby has finally had enough, and he curses Sam out six ways from Sunday, tells him to get off his lazy ass and do something or get the hell out of his house. Honestly, if Sam didn't know this was the first place Dean will look for him – because he's coming home, he _has_ to come home – he'd consider finding another place to stay.

But Bobby knows as well as he does that he's not going anywhere without Dean by his side, so Sam drags himself into the library and sets himself the task of organizing and cataloguing and shelving every single dusty old book Bobby's ever collected over his long years of hunting.

It's a task that Sam would probably love at any other time in his life. Now it's unpleasant and arduous and daunting. But it keeps him moving, and sometimes, it even takes his mind away from the endless wait.

Not often, but sometimes.

One month passes, then two, and suddenly it's fall, and Dean still doesn't return.

Sam waits.

-666-

Because he's a contrary son of a bitch, Dean doesn't hide from the sunlight. It burns his skin and sears his vision and makes him long for the cool shadows of night more than he ever has before, but he doesn't hide from the day. He won't.

After a few solid weeks, he builds something like a tolerance to it. It's not easy, or anything even close to easy, but eventually, his skin stops burning bright red and his eyes start to get a little more acclimated to the brightness.

He has his car back. It showed up in the parking lot of his latest motel one afternoon, and he smirked at the sky and called Cas a bastard and that was that. Now he can drive from town to town again, not sure what he's looking for, more just looking to see if he can do it. In a lot of ways, it doesn't feel any different than the last twenty-something years of his life, except that Sam isn't lounging in the passenger seat next to him.

That's a thought he ruthlessly cuts off every time it tries to cross his mind.

At first, he takes it a little at a time, being around people. A half mile from a small town, he'll stop, take in the signs of life, judge his hunger. Creep closer, and see if the sounds of people talking near enough to hear make it worse. If he can get close enough to smell them, close enough to hear a heartbeat, and he still doesn't crave blood, it's a good day.

Most days aren't exactly good days or bad days, but something in between.

He sticks close to woodlands for the most part, no matter where he drives. Necessity forces him to call on the old hunting skills – the _normal_ hunting skills – his dad taught him so long ago, and it's with relief that he brings them back from memory with ease. There's enough of the arsenal in the trunk that he can pass off as hunting weapons. He hates himself every time he shoots down a wild deer, or especially the one time he slits the throat of a wolf, but he knows it's better this way. They aren't people, and they aren't even people's livelihoods. They're prey, and he's careful to only take what he needs to keep his strength and survive.

He doesn't need to eat every day, but if he goes more than three, the hunger takes hold, and by five, humans start to look appetizing again. When he can avoid it, he never goes five days. But even when he can't, he keeps his head. Never gives in to that temptation. Doesn't allow himself close enough contact to even _be_ tempted.

He's not sure why he doesn't just end it here and now, except that it feels like it would be too easy, maybe. He knows what he is, knows that he should exterminate himself at the first opportunity, but something stays his hand every time. Part of it is just the stupid blind faith Sam – and even Castiel – seems to have in him. He's never been good at letting people down. He isn't sure if he's forgiven them for what they did, but he still cares too much to just give up and do what he knows he needs to.

And there's that pull, that endless, insistent tugging that he knows leads straight back to Sammy. It's too hard to contemplate losing that thread. It keeps him moving, keeps him pushing himself. Testing his limits, learning his strengths and weaknesses, day in and day out.

He doesn't know what it is that makes him turn the car towards Kansas, because God knows it's the last place on earth he ever wants to see again. But by the time he shows up on Missouri Mosley's doorstep, he thinks he's almost ready to face it.

To face himself.

-666-

There's nothing special about the day, as far as Sam can tell. It's a little nippy outside – he's gone from organizing Bobby's library to cataloguing all of the junkers and parts the man has littering his yard – and it smells like a storm is rolling in, probably sometime before nightfall.

But otherwise, there's absolutely nothing that should have him as edgy and fidgety as he's been since waking up that morning. Even Bobby had shot him a side-eyed glance and wondered aloud what the hell had crawled up his ass during the night…a comment Sam hadn't been willing to touch with a ten-foot pole, no matter how much he loves the cranky old hunter.

Whatever it is that's getting to him, it's gotten worse as the day's crept on. By the time the sun reached its zenith, he was all but bouncing, and now as it crawls its way toward the horizon, there's an honest-to-God buzzing underneath his skin and in his ears, and he can't stop moving. He's been pacing the salvage yard for an hour, notepad long forgotten in the front seat of a broken down old Dodge, and it's all he can do to try to get his brain to calm the fuck down already.

And then, as though it's coming from a great distance, he hears the faintest trace of hope, in the form of the constant and familiar rumble of the Impala.

Sam feels his breath stutter and his heart skip a beat. He stares at the open gate at the edge of Bobby's property, feeling like his goddamn soul is about to crawl its way up out of his throat.

By the time the sleek lines of Dean's car – _their_ car, really, because no matter what Dean says it's been theirs for a long time now – come into view, Sam is already running.

-666-

Dean finds it all kinds of ironic that he feels more at peace with himself right now than he has in the last ten years or so when he was human.

But there's an ocean of calm inside him that he can't remember ever having before, and there's a smile on his face as he drives the familiar roads toward Bobby's house. Roads that will lead him to Sam, and that's all he cares about right now.

For better or worse, Dean is alive, and he plans on staying that way for a while. Which means he needs his brother by his side.

He owes a lot to Missouri. The last week with her had gone a long way to helping him accept what he is now. She'd taken one look at him and drawn him into her arms and held him when he finally allowed himself to break. He hadn't been able to lose it in front of Sam, wouldn't allow himself to call for Castiel, but it was safe, somehow, to fall apart in front of Missouri in a way he couldn't do around them.

And then her lack of fear, and the way she'd handled that wooden spoon when he'd tried arguing just the one time, was enough to make Dean take a good long look at things.

He'd been on the road for nearly three months, and he hadn't taken a single bite out of a human. Hadn't even come close. He could still function, could still pass for human easily enough. He had new abilities that made him a far better hunter than he'd been before, and while he felt like he could be dangerous, he didn't feel like he was a danger.

He isn't an idiot, he remembers Gordon. He remembers all the people they've met who have turned into monsters, and he's seen what it's done to them. But Missouri, of all people, would give it to him straight if she thought that was a possibility for him, and she has as much faith in him as Sam does.

And then there's the fact that Dean's been a monster before, long before he ever tasted vampire blood. He still clearly remembers everything he ever did in Hell. This…the vampire thing…he feels so much less like a monster now than he did back then that there are moments he can't breathe because of it. If he can be forgiven for all of that, a time when he'd actually been speeding down the road toward full-fledged demonhood, than surely… _surely_ …he can make it through this intact.

So now Dean's here, driving through Bobby's front gate, grin splitting his face when he hears Sam's pounding footsteps and racing heart, when he can actually feel him getting closer, Sam's presence like a shining beacon to Dean's enhanced senses. The second he sees him come out from behind a pile of scrap metal, Dean brakes hard, throwing the car into park and lunging out, catching himself just in time for Sam to throw his arms around him and cling for dear life.

Dean's holding on just as hard, but he'll never admit it.

"God _damn_ you smell good," is the first thing Dean says, and it's funny in a fucked up sort of way, but it's also true. Sam smells like home, just like he always has, but it's so much stronger now, like this. In all his traveling the past few months, Dean spent a good long time questioning himself and what he was, but he hadn't taken much time to consider Sam and what they were to each other.

After his initial freak-out that first day, he hadn't needed to.

Sam is his whole world, always has been. That's really all Dean needs to know. If Sam's okay with this new messed up thing between them, then Dean's okay with it too. Simple as that.

Sam laughs helplessly, burying his face in Dean's shoulder. "Classy, Dean," he says, but Dean can hear the happiness in his voice, can smell it on his skin. He grins harder, drawing away so that he can take in Sam's face, greedily drink in the way his eyes are shining. He never noticed the green and gold flecks in Sam's eyes before, and he falls a little bit (a lot) in love with them now that he can see.

"I knew you'd come home," Sam says quietly. He ducks his head, smirking a little as he adds, "Took you long enough, jerk."

"I'm here now," Dean replies. "And I'm not going anywhere again." It's promise and apology both, and it's enough.

-666-

Bobby gives Dean a good once-over, proclaims him an _idgit_ in that way that only Bobby Singer can get away with, and stomps off to go and grab the good liquor from the cabinet. Sam barely notices, because he's having a hard time dragging his eyes away from Dean for even a second.

Dean looks at ease in his own skin, and it's been a good long time since Sam's seen that. He's alert, his eyes tracking everywhere, noticing all the little changes to Bobby's house as they walk, and he has a way of perking up at the slightest sounds even a trained hunter like Sam can't hear, but despite that, he looks… _relaxed_.

Sam doesn’t know what happened to Dean while he was away, but whatever it was, he's grateful for it. Dean's never going to be happy about being a vampire – Sam's not naïve enough to believe that's even possible – but maybe they'll really be able to get through this. Maybe Dean can live with it and not hate himself every time he looks in a mirror. Maybe Sam won't always feel that deep twinge of guilt every time he thinks about it too hard.

Dean leans in while Bobby's out of sight, squeezing Sam's hip and coming close enough to…well, to bite. Sam's breath catches at the thought, something he's not too inclined to put a name to (but goddamn, it feels like eagerness) pulsing through him, but Dean doesn't go for his neck, of course. He just leans close enough to whisper, "So how soon you think we can get outta here?"

Sam's already thinking of excuses to feed to Bobby.

-666-

Dean can't help but smirk when his brother's best efforts fail. Bobby isn't so easily deterred, and the alcohol and conversation flows steadily between the three of them for a few solid hours before Bobby finally looks like he might be looking to get some shut-eye.

"You boys gonna stick around here or get a move on?" he asks after giving in to a yawn so wide it makes his jaw crack.

Dean looks at Sam, and Sam looks steadily back with barely-concealed heat in his eyes, and Dean swallows hard. "Think we'll find a motel for the night, if it's all the same to you," he tells Bobby. "Sammy here probably hasn't seen the outside world in a while."

Bobby nods, sharp eyes tracking them closely, and Dean knows he's not fooled for a minute. He meets Bobby's gaze without flinching. A challenge, but Bobby just smirks and shakes his head as he stands. Shoulders hunched like he's maybe a little uncomfortable, but you'd never know it to look at his face. "Well all right then. You call if you run into any trouble, y'hear? Other hunters…"

"We got it, Bobby," Sam says, smiling gratefully at the man who's been like a father to them for so long. "And thanks. For everything."

"Uh huh." Bobby gives a halfhearted wave as he trudges up the stairs to his room, and that's it.

No judgment, no angry words. Bobby trusts them to know what they're doing. Like they've earned that, somehow, even with everything they've fucked up over the last few years.

It's a gift Dean doesn't know how to thank him for, but Bobby's not looking for his gratitude, anyway.

He downs the rest of his whiskey and stands, meeting Sam's eyes again, this time with a predatory smile that has nothing to do with the hunt and everything to do with the capture.

His little brother looks like he doesn't mind the idea all that much.

-666-

Sam's not a vampire, will never be a vampire, but apparently that doesn't stop him from having a serious vampire kink. Of course, really it's just a _Dean_ kink, he knows that, but… God, there's just something about the way his brother looks right now, all dark eyes and hard edges and that one sharp fang he uses to pierce Sam's skin at the least expected moments… It gets him so hot he can't breathe, his dick going from half-mast to rock-hard in milliseconds, and he knows that Dean knows it.

But Dean doesn't give any indication that he's aware of Sam's suffering at all, too busy worshipping Sam's legs as he peels his jeans and boxers off together, an inch of skin uncovered at a time and it feels like Dean's made it his goal to lick or nip or suckle at every single one. It's torture – excruciating, unbearable torture.

Sam's hands are fisted in the blankets, because the one time he tried to get a grip on Dean, his brother had snarled at him, eyes flashing dangerously – not in a way that made Sam afraid of him, but in a way that made Sam afraid that he'd stop altogether.

Sam doesn't know how to be afraid of Dean.

So he doesn't touch, and he doesn't buck his hips the way he wants to, because that had gotten him a warning glare as well, and he doesn't even moan, because Dean had pressed a finger to his lips at the very beginning and whispered, "Quiet, Sam," and it seemed like a good order to follow.

But God, he doesn't know how much more of this he can take. This slow reveal of flesh, Dean's burning gaze devouring him, the way his brother is so obviously hungry for the same thing he is…

"Can I fuck you, Sammy?" Dean asks, his voice low.

Sam's brain stutters to a grinding halt. "God, yes," he grits out. " _Please_."

Dean's already got him naked by this point, and it seems like from one blink to the next that he's got his own clothes tossed onto the floor, and then he's crawling back over Sam, every movement filled with seductive grace and careful purpose. When he's finally leaning over him at eye level again, Dean licks his lips. "On your knees, little brother," he says, with the same cocky grin Sam grew up with his entire life.

Sam's never moved as fast as he does right now, scrambling to turn over and bury his face in the pillows and thrust his ass in the air, and oh God, Dean's laughter does something deep inside him that he's never going to admit to, makes him shudder with a whole new wave of _yes, want, now, please, Dean!_

Dean doesn't waste time. He kisses his way up the bumps and ridges of Sam's spine as he pushes in first one slick finger, then another. Reaches his other hand around to stroke Sam's cock as he begins to scissor. By the time he's pulling out and slicking up his own cock, he's reached Sam's neck with his mouth.

He pushes in, too fast but not fast enough, God damn it, and he whispers, " _Mine_ ," and then he's biting down hard on the back of Sam's neck, fangs out but not feeding, only marking. Claiming. And at that thought, with that knowledge, everything in Sam goes white-hot. He cries out just as Dean's cock nudges against his prostate, and Dean's still stroking him at the same time, and all of the sensations are way too much, and Sam can't possibly be expected to survive this, he _can't_ …

" _Dean_ ," he cries, but it might be only in his head because he doesn't have an ounce of breath to speak with, can't even moan the way his throat is so desperately trying to. He bites down hard on the pillow, the same way Dean is biting into his neck, and doesn't even realize he's already coming until Dean gives a strangled shout of victory and follows him over the edge, and then Sam…

Well, he's pretty sure he can be forgiven for blacking out, after all that.

-666-

Dean gives Sam hell afterwards, because that's what Dean does. It's not only expected, it's practically Winchester law.

And, well, Dean is just _that good_ , apparently. He has to revel in it a little bit.

Sam's nice enough to let him get away with it for a few days, anyway, before he starts retaliating with things he has no right to know anything about. Like silk panties. And fuzzy handcuffs.

Anyway.

After that, it feels like Dean's finally ready for things to move on. He's got no fucking clue what they're supposed to do now, but he's got a new lease on life (or not-life, but who's really counting at this point?), and his brother-slash-mate (which is still weird but also fucking _awesome_ ) by his side, and he feels like he could actually take on the world right now and _win_.

It's a damn good feeling.

-666-

Sam is in _full_ agreement.

-666-

It's weeks later when they finally hear from Castiel, for the first time since Dean came back. The angel stops by their motel room for the sole purpose of informing the Winchesters that Raphael has been dealt with, and that Crowley has been sealed back in Hell where he belongs. The Apocalypse averted yet again, and Heaven slowly returning to something like order.

Dean is boggled, but all Cas will tell him is something about using the souls from Purgatory to power himself up long enough to gain the upper hand against the archangel.

"Must've been some power trip," Dean says, raising an eyebrow.

Castiel bows his head, but never answers beyond the single look of deep gratitude he shoots at Sam, which Sam seems to understand but Dean can make neither heads nor tails of.

After that, Castiel only stays long enough to quietly tell Dean that he's glad he seems to be all right, and that Castiel now has an all-access pass to Purgatory if something _does_ go wrong with Sam's soulmate plan. And then he's gone in a flurry of wingbeats, same as always, never so much as a lousy goodbye.

But for once, Dean thinks he's okay with it. He still owes the angel a beat-down for helping Sam with his crazy fucking plan to begin with, but Dean's been in a pretty forgiving mood lately. He thinks they'll be okay too.

"I'm glad he's always been on our side," Sam says softly, coming up behind Dean and wrapping his arms around him, resting his chin on Dean's shoulder.

"Yeah, me too," Dean replies. He turns in Sam's arms, hooks his own behind Sam's neck. "So, one crisis averted and we didn't even have to lift a finger. What do we do now, Sammy-boy?"

Sam shrugs, grins, his eyes full of mischief. "I'm sure we'll think of something to pass the time."

Dean doesn't waste time, just tackles Sam to the bed with a growl, and Sam laughs breathlessly.

"You know, just because you're a big, strong, scary vampire, you're not the automatic top in this relationship, jerk." Sam's face is open and happy, and his words carry absolutely no weight at all.

"Bite me, bitch." The response comes to Dean as easily as the smirk that slides over his face.

Sam glances back up, all wide-eyed puppy-dog innocence. "Isn't that your job?"

Dean answering laughter is sharp and delighted.

_Yeah, we're gonna be just fine._


End file.
